


Pineapple & Prejudice

by MediumSizedEvil



Series: Every Time [2]
Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Regency, F/M, With Apologies to Jane
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-01-25 00:33:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21347347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MediumSizedEvil/pseuds/MediumSizedEvil
Summary: It is a truth universally acknowledged that two strangers sharing a stage coach must become better acquainted during the course of their journey, especially if said journey proves to be rather eventful.Action! Romance! Muslin! Sexism! This story has it all.
Relationships: Jake Peralta/Amy Santiago
Series: Every Time [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1538911
Comments: 20
Kudos: 28





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The Bow Street Runners, founded in 1749, were London's first professional police force.

  


Early one morning a young lady alighted from a carriage at a busy coaching inn and soon afterwards entered another. Inside was only one other passenger, a young man in possession of a pleasing countenance, a bright, lively eye, and not much else. “Good day, Miss,” he said courteously while lifting his hat.

“Good day, sir,” she replied curtly, for propriety's sake, and sat down on the opposite side.

He looked at the door and raised an eyebrow as the stage coach set into motion. “Pardon me, Miss, I do not mean to intrude, but have you not forgotten something?”

She looked about her and quickly took stock of her possessions, one knitted reticule in the shape of a pineapple to be exact. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Have you not left your chaperone behind, perhaps?” he clarified.

“My chaperone?” she replied. “I do not have a chaperone.”

“Ah, I see. My apologies, I did not mean to pry. I merely thought that if perchance you had left her asleep at the inn that would have been most unfortunate.”

She cracked a small smile. “Yes, that would have been very careless of me.”

“Or wicked,” he jested.

“If she were an old dragon, one might accidentally forget one's chaperone at the inn,” she agreed.

“Or if she were a saint, and you were up to no good.” He curiously examined her. “So are you running off to meet your paramour, and elope to Gretna Green?”

She sighed. “No, nothing of the sort. I am going home to my family.”

He looked mildly disappointed. She took a kerchief from her pineapple purse and wiped her dusty brow. “But you must be wondering why I am travelling all alone, without a companion.”

“As it happens I am of a curious nature, and therefore if you wished to share the tale I will gladly listen. Did you perchance escape from a burning edifice in the utmost haste? Are you on the run from the mighty arm of the law? Or are you absconding to France to escape a wicked stepmother who kept you locked away in a dark, windowless room because you would not finish your liver ragout?”

“None of those,” she admitted. “I was visiting an old friend at her family's estate, when all of a sudden her elder brother, who is her guardian and the master of the house, turned me out of doors at the crack of dawn.”

“What an extraordinary tale!” he exclaimed. “And what was his reason? Did you spit in his soup? Did you kill his favourite hunter? Did you forget to wear gloves to dinner? Did you perform ancient witchcraft in the churchyard?”

She smiled and shook her head. “No, he merely found out I was not what he thought I was.”

“Ah, you are really...a dissenter? a Hottentot? an actress? Please tell me, I cannot bear the suspense.”

“It is nothing so scandalous. He merely found out I was poor, without any dowry to speak of. He had, completely unbeknownst to me, taken me for a rich heiress – I can only presume he had formed some designs on me, that odious vulture - and he was incensed when he learned the truth through a letter from an acquaintance.”

“What a terrible blackguard, to treat his sister's friend so appallingly! But how did he come to think you were an heiress?”

“Well, for that I will have to start my story at the very beginning.”

“A very good place to start,” he agreed.

She cleared her throat. “A little while ago one of our very kind neighbours, a confirmed bachelor named Captain Holt, invited me to accompany himself and his sister on a trip to Bath, where she wished to take the waters. We had a very pleasant stay, although the waters are absolutely foul. I would much rather die. But I digress. One day in the pump-room I chanced upon a former schoolfellow, Miss Pembroke, and we spent many an agreeable hour in each other's company. She even showed me how to knit a reticule in the shape of a pine apple!”

He nodded approvingly as she displayed her exotic handiwork. “A friend indeed.”

“At the end of my sojourn in Bath we still had much to discuss, so she requested her brother's permission to invite me to Pembroke Hall, which was readily granted. As it happens, at the Upper Rooms I had also been introduced to one Colonel Wells, an altogether tedious man upon further acquaintance, who nevertheless after only a few reels and one cotillion had seemingly made up his mind about my future and his. Either by design or ignorance he had then boasted to his friend Colonel Pembroke that Captain Holt was, in his words, as rich as a Jew and had bequeathed his whole fortune to me in his will, which is abject nonsense as his widowed sister has three children.” She sighed. “So that is the truth of it, as I learned only this morning.”

Her companion started laughing. “That is the most ridiculous story I have ever heard. Even I could not have made it up.” He shook his head. “But I feel awful on your behalf, to have been treated so poorly by this dastardly villain, Colonel Pembroke.”

“Thank you, I appreciate your kind solicitude.”

“Also, not all Jews are rich,” he continued. “I, for one, do not have a penny to my name.” He said it as if it were a point of pride.

“And what name is that?” she inquired.

He startled. “You must think me a terrible oaf, for not introducing myself earlier!” He took off his hat with a flourish. “Jacob Peyrealta, Miss. Your humble servant.”

“Peyrealta, you say?” she replied hesitantly.

“Yes, Peyrealta. It's Portuguese,” he explained. “But we did not like the climate.”

She smiled sadly. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Peyrealta. My name is Emily St. James.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Miss St. James. Now I would assure you that although I have no claim to gentility I am a true and honourable fellow, but that is of course precisely what a duplicitous cad would say.”

She shook her head. “I believe actions speak louder than words, and you have been very agreeable company so far. And often enough those that pass for gentlemen in polite society prove themselves quite the opposite in practice, as I can attest.”

He nodded. “Would that only a tender heart in a sturdy frame were required to merit the liberal income associated with that term!”

“Indeed, the world would be a fairer place if gentlemen had to earn their master title, like all other trades.” She wished to inquire after his, but felt it would be indelicate. “Are you headed all the way to Town?” she asked instead.

“Yes, I am prenticed to my uncle in Whitechapel as a tailor,” he pointedly replied to her needling question.

She nodded, noting his modest yet well-cut attire. “And do you enjoy it?”

“No,” he said determinedly. “It is most dreadfully dull. But what choice do I have?” He sighed. “I would join the Bow Street Runners, if I could.”

She gasped. “So would I!”

“But, you are a woman,” he protested.

She gave him a cold stare. “So I should be content to listen to Colonel Pembroke's ignorant rants or Colonel Wells's tiresome lectures on small ale until I die in the birthing bed, while you get to complain about stitching vests?” She sat up straight and lifted her chin. “I will have you know I am better at cricket and baseball than any of my brothers. And I have seven!”

“Seven?” he exclaimed.

Just then the carriage came to an abrupt halt, as the horses whinnied loudly. The door was thrown open, and a masked man pointed a pistol at them. “Get out!”


	2. Chapter 2

They alighted from the carriage as the masked highwayman kept his pistol trained on them. She quickly observed they had stopped in the middle of a dense forest, far from any sign of civilisation. A heavy branch placed in the middle of the road had obviously spooked the horses. The coachman was nowhere to be seen, having absconded into the woods presumably.

The ruffian approached our heroine and ripped off the thin chain round her neck from which hung a pretty amber cross, a gift from one of her seafaring brothers. Then he seized her pineapple purse and disappointedly viewed its meagre contents before carelessly tossing aside the fashionable fruit of her labour. She was fuming with righteous wrath at the shameless thug's villainy.

Next he turned to her travel companion, and Mr Peyrealta turned out all his pockets at the rogue's request. However, true to his word he did not have a single penny on his person, only a roll of measuring tape. The fiendish knave then pointed to an old, battered trunk on top of the carriage and ordered him to retrieve it. As Mr Peyrealta climbed up to the roof of the coach he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, and she understood his intent immediately. As he prepared to make his way down again the heavy trunk slipped from his fingers and hit the ground with a loud thump.

The dastardly rapscallion jumped backwards in alarm, completely taken off guard. Right at that moment our heroine picked up a large branch and hit him on the side of the head with it. He emitted a loud, pitiful cry and sank down to the forest floor. The pistol had slipped from his hands, and she picked it up and pointed it at his head. “Stay down.”

Meanwhile her accomplice had climbed down from the roof of the carriage, and jumped the last bit to the ground. “Nice work!”

“I told you I was fond of baseball!”

“Is that how you play it at home?” he jested. “I wonder you have seven brothers left. How many did you start with?”

“The same amount. We are a hardy lot.”

“I do not doubt it,” he said, and bent over to bind the rogue's wrists together with his handy roll of measuring tape. “I should measure your neck for a noose!” he added. Then he stood up and looked about him. “So how will we get out of this desolate place? That blasted coachman has deserted us.” He sighed. “I suppose we will just have to walk to the nearest town.”

“No, we shall take the carriage,” she said determinedly.

He frowned. “Can you drive a coach-and-four then?”

“Certainly.” She picked up the whip from where the coachman had dropped it in his haste.

“Truly you are a most accomplished woman!”

She idly stroked one of the carriage horses and hid her face against its cream-coloured neck. “You flatter me, sir, but I assure you that I do not possess any of the usual talents to merit the phrase.”

“Perhaps I prefer _unusual_ talents.”

They quickly collected their belongings and securely tied up the wretched ruffian before depositing him in the carriage none too gently.

“And if you try to escape, I will shoot you,” Mr Peyrealta said menacingly. She handed him the pistol to add more force to his threat. Then they climbed up onto the box, our heroine took the reins and they were off.

“Miss St. James,” he said to her with a most sincere look, “I believe you would make an excellent Bow Street Runner.”

“Thank you, Mr Peyrealta. So would you.”

“But your dress!” he suddenly exclaimed. “Six inches deep in mud. And this muslin, I am afraid it will not wash well.”

She was touched by his concern for her attire, which she herself had not given another thought. “Do you understand muslins, sir?”

“Particularly well, having cut many a handsome cravat.” He happily shared his professional opinion on the sprigged, the spotted, the tamboured, the mull and the jackonet. She was very well satisfied when he proclaimed her dress a prodigious bargain at only five shillings a yard, for a true Indian muslin.

Upon arrival at the next town they found the local Constable and quickly related their daring escape after depositing the hapless scoundrel at his feet.

Constable Kelly removed the ruffian's mask and gasped. “It is none other than Richard Turpentine, that infamous rogue, the scourge of the turnpike!” He turned to Mr Peyrealta. “I congratulate you, sir, on apprehending this dangerous felon and protecting the delicate maiden from harm.”

“As I told you, to Miss St. James goes most of the credit.”

Constable Kelly shook his head. “I am sure you are very modest, but nobody believes your far-fetched tale. You single-handedly captured this notorious bandit and guarded the fair lady's honour. I am certain she fainted right at the onset and does not recollect a thing!”

“As I said, Miss St. James was instrumental in-”

She impatiently pulled on his sleeve. “Let us be gone,” she insisted. “I should like to reach home before nightfall. We shall return the carriage and horses to the coaching inn and continue our journey from there.”

Constable Kelly looked on in alarm as she jumped up on the box and took the reins.

“But sir,” he exclaimed, “Surely you will not let the young lady drive the carriage?”

He frowned. “And why ever not? It is a fair sight, a lady cracking the whip.”

She looked askance as the carriage set into motion. “There are not many men who would admit as such.”

He shook his head. “Such is the English vice. Hypocrisy, I mean. Yet I do not fear the judgment of a lady, if she be fair.”

“Then in all fairness, I shall not judge you.”

“Oh I beg of you, do not spare me your judgment! I would gladly suffer the consequences, if you find me wanting.”

“Then if justice be thy plea, I am pleased to find you are a man of consequence.”

“And that is your final verdict, fair Portia?”

“Why, do you wish to appeal to me?”

“I can only hope to appeal to you by matching your sharp wit, but I have received quite the lashing already,” he admitted.

“Then I believe we are well-matched, as you have clearly mastered the tailor's cut,” she replied archly, before turning her attention back to the road. Upon arrival at the coaching inn they delivered the carriage and horses into the care of the astonished innkeeper and continued their journey on the regular stage coach service. After a blissfully uneventful jaunt on the turnpike they finally approached the village where our heroine resided.

“Perhaps I had better better see you home,” he suggested, and she did not object. Far from being offended at taking her for a helpless maiden after everything that had transpired, she understood his true intent in wishing to spend a few more instants in her company and was suitably flattered.

Mr Peyrealta left his luggage at the coaching inn for safekeeping, and this reminded her to inform the innkeeper to expect her own trunk in due course. - Her friend Miss Pembroke, mortified beyond belief by her brother's ill manners, had promised to pack and send it after her forthwith. - Mr Peyrealta gallantly offered to carry her pineapple purse, and they set off together for the last leg of the journey, a pleasurable walk through the fields to her family abode.

Though she was loathe to part from him so soon her treacherous heart did betray her by feeling a small spark of joy at the all too familiar surroundings, and she excitedly pointed out all the notable landmarks to him, which mainly consisted of places she had scraped her knee or fallen out of a tree once.

Finally they reached their destination, and she espied her father on the other side of the hedge, pruning a mulberry bush. He was a very respectable man, though his name was St. John, and he had never been handsome. “Emily!” Mr St. John St. James exclaimed upon seeing his only daughter returned to him. “Are you back so soon?”

“There was a slight change of plans,” she explained. “But I am glad to be home safe.” She sighed and turned to her valiant escort, who gracefully handed over her fruity receptacle.

“Farewell, Miss St. James,” he said wistfully, lifting his hat. “I hope you will remember a poor tailor.”

She shyly looked away. “I shall not soon forget you, Mr Peyrealta,” she said at last.

Mr St. John St. James frowned. “Did you say Peyrealta?”

“Yes,” his daughter confirmed. “I thought it sounded familiar, but I could not recall where I heard the name before.”

Mr St. John St. James turned to the young man. “Are you Mr Jacob Peyrealta, son of the late Roger Peyrealta?”

“Indeed I am,” he replied with astonishment. “But I have long been estranged from my father.”

Mr St. John St. James nodded. “My old friend Mr Briggs, the solicitor, has been searching high and low for you. He wishes to inform you that your uncle, Mr John Peyrealta of Madeira, has died and left you his whole fortune in his will.”

“Well that is remarkably fortuitous!” he exclaimed.

“It is a considerable sum. Enough to live as a gentleman, even purchase an estate.”

He shook his head. “Speaking of ridiculous stories...”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For qwertypoi, who wanted some married fluff. Perhaps this will become a detective story at some point, when I can think of a plot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Daniel Mendoza (1764-1836) was a Jewish pugilist, All England champion and author of _The Art of Boxing_.

For a man of leisure Mr Jacob Peyrealta was remarkably busy. First he went to Tattersall's to see a man about a horse - which turned out to be a sham – after which he made his way to Jeffords' Boxing Salon to blow off some steam, and then he went to see his uncle in Whitechapel to get fitted for a new pair of breeches.

“So what is the occasion?” the kind, bespectacled man asked as he put some small pins rather close to delicate flesh.

“A charity concert at the Foundling Hospital.” He sighed. “Mrs Jacob insisted.”

His uncle nodded. “A worthy cause.”

“It is so very tiresome being a wealthy philanthropist,” he grumbled.

“Yes, I am sure you would much rather be a tailor.”

He smiled. “How do you like the new boy?”

“Oh, he is fine. Very diligent. Not as entertaining though. But you do a good thing, his mother is pleased.”

His uncle was a proud man and would never accept any assistance from his fortunate nephew despite holding him in the warmest regard. Therefore all he could do was discretely pay the apprentice fees for a number of deserving boys, to supplement his meagre income. Besides, his uncle liked nothing better than instructing eager young minds in the fine art of tailoring and telling cross-legged tall tales to a captive audience. So, determined to indulge him to his heart's content, he sponsored as many pupils as could be crammed into the tiny front room.

His uncle took a pin from his mouth. “Speaking of pleased mothers, how is my dear sister?”

“Very well. I believe she is secretly overjoyed the third one is a girl at last. She absolutely dotes on her.”

“She deserves all the happiness in the world after toiling so hard for you. Well, you come back next week for a final fitting.”

He took his leave and made his way along the grimy East End streets. Everywhere little boys stared at him as if he were a stranger in these parts, and as they looked up he saw the hunger in their eyes. I was one of these boys once, he thought with a pang. He had seen other men throw coins in the dirt to be fought over like wolves, and it always disgusted him. He shook his head. “Who can show me the way to Spitalfields Market?” he asked loudly.

“ME!” “ME!” “ME!” they all clamoured while crowding around him.

“Then you'd better all come along.”

Watching their gaunt faces and bare feet he thought of his own boys at home; happy, healthy, and wanting for nothing. He followed his eager guides through the all too familiar streets and alleyways, and they listened with rapt attention as he described Daniel Mendoza's latest match. Upon arrival at Spitalfields Market he sent them all home with a big apple and a small coin. Then he quickly browsed the stalls, and after running another errand he made his way to 99a Baker Street.

“Jacob!” his mother exclaimed. “Come in, dear.”

He followed her inside and shook his head at the assortment of fabric and patterns and scissors littering the dining room table. No matter how many times he told her she did not have to sew another button in her life she simply could not be stopped, so he had just accepted that this was what made her happiest. He took a small card of embroidery silk from his pocket. “Is this the right colour?”

“Oh yes,” she replied, holding it next to a half-finished, tiny little dress. “Perfect. Thank you, dear.” She kissed his cheek. Then she showed him a pair of knitted booties. “Are they not precious? Now all I need is some pearl buttons to finish them off.”

“You may buy all the pearl buttons in London, Mother,” he promised. He declined her offer to stay for tea, eager to get home. He went upstairs and opened the door. It was suspiciously quiet.

“Mrs Jacob is in the bedroom, sir,” the maid informed him.

Indeed there she was, nursing their little one. She looked up. “Jake!”

“Ames,” he said fondly, and sat down on the bed next to his beautiful girls to soak up the domestic bliss.

“Rosa took the boys to the park,” she informed him.

He nodded. That explained the eerie silence.

When she was finished he took the infant and kissed her wrinkly little forehead before putting her back in her lavishly decorated crib. “She is adorable.”

“Yes, when she is well fed.”

Then an avalanche of youthful noise tumbled up the stairs and spilled into the bedroom.

“I caught a frog! Papa, I caught a frog!”

“I saw a tiger! RAWR! Mama, I have a flower for you.”

“Thank you, sweetheart, now get off the bed with your shoes. Rosa, please have them wash their hands and faces.”

“Right, off you go,” she ordered gruffly. “Supercalifragilisticexpialidoasisay!”

“Listen to Nanny Rosa,” he added, “Or I will play the violin.”

“NOOOOO!” they yelled and ran out of the room, covering their ears.

He sighed deeply before fondly kissing his wife.

“So did you have something to tell me?” she inquired astutely.

“Yes,” he replied, colouring slightly. “I managed to procure the eh...item.”

“Oh, may I see?”

He took a small box from his pocket and showed her the contents. “I hope you are not disappointed, with it being neither French nor a letter,” he quipped.

She smiled. “No, I think it will satisfy me very well.” She ruffled his curls and then gently kissed him. “Thank you, darling.”

He shook his head. “I nearly lost you. I cannot bear to lose you.”

She covered the box with her hand. “_Honi soit qui mal y pense._”


	4. Chapter 4

_"Even a poor tailor is entitled to some happiness."_

“Once upon a time there was a simple tailor who lived in a town just like this, but a bit smaller, who was very skilled at his job, had good clear handwriting and always kept very accurate records of his business affairs. He was a quiet, sober man who kept mostly to himself, and one day he suddenly died. Well, you may ask, what kind of story is that? But it has not even started yet.

“His landlady wrote to his next of kin, a cousin in Whitechapel who also happened to work as a tailor, and asked him to come and settle his affairs as soon as possible so she could rent out his lodgings again at the end of the month. Unfortunately the tailor had a very important commission to finish so he sent his apprentice, a bright young man who also happened to be his nephew. He gave him an old, battered trunk and instructed him to pack up anything of value and dispose of the rest.

“Now the young man came to town and followed his uncle's instructions to the letter. However, whilst sorting through the poor tailor's tools and fabrics and other meagre possessions he came upon a half-finished tailcoat. He checked his uncle's cousin's immaculate records and found out for whom it was intended, and also, more importantly, that the customer had already paid for the materials in advance. So the young apprentice concluded that the half-finished coat belonged to this gentleman by rights, and he set out to return it.

“After asking for directions from the landlady he made his way to a well-to-do merchant's house, whose principal occupant was pleasantly surprised to see the young apprentice. He had made his way to the tailor's home in the preceding week for a fitting but found the place deserted. Upon learning of the poor tailor's demise from a kindly neighbour he had returned home again, resolved to leave everyone in peace on this sad occasion. He was a good-natured, generous man, and he simply resigned himself to wearing his old coat a little while longer.

“Now the apprentice handed over the half-finished tailcoat, sincerely apologising on behalf on his uncle's cousin for inconveniencing him by dying so suddenly, and advised him to take it to another tailor to finish. However, upon learning that the merchant had ordered the new coat to wear to his daughter's wedding the very next day the apprentice insisted on finishing the garment himself right away. He asked the merchant to come for his final fitting early next morning, and slaved away all night by the light of a candle.

“When the merchant came in the next day the handsome tailcoat proved a perfect fit, and he was more than pleased with the result. However, the diligent apprentice refused to take any payment, because he would not profit from stealing a dead man's work. He argued that he had merely done as his uncle would have wished, and that his uncle's cousin could rest soundly now that his work was done, and that was all the payment he needed. But the merchant insisted, and so the young apprentice suggested he make a small donation to a worthy cause in his uncle's cousin's memory instead.

“As the merchant did not know the tailor well and neither did the apprentice, having never even met him, they asked the landlady where his interests lay. She admitted that he was an altogether unremarkable man without any distinguishing features, except for an incorrigible sweet tooth. So the merchant went to the nearest bakery, ordered a great number of iced buns and made some little boys very happy. And when he saw the joy on their faces and the icing on their cheeks he resolved to do it again the following year, on the anniversary of his daughter's wedding. And so he did, and the year thereafter, and the year after that, and so forth. And that is why we are having this delicious treat from the mayor today!

“But wait, what happened to the diligent apprentice, you may ask? Of course blessings rained down on him for being such a virtuous young man. On the way home in the stage coach he met a beautiful young lady, together they heroically defeated an evil highwayman, then he came into a great fortune, and they lived happily ever after.

“So what is the moral of this story? Always keep very detailed records! Oh, and be a good human.”


End file.
